Lottery Tickets and Cigarettes?

Well, I made it. 

I don't feel any different. That's kind of how I feel every May 1st. Exactly the same. Except for my second or third birthday, which was when I finally understood what was actually going on. Other than that, I'm always overwhelmed with the sense of uniformity the first of May always brings about. 

This birthday is the birthday I've wanted since sixth grade, probably. I've always wanted to be about ten years older than I really am. My age is always something I've tried to escape. Maybe it's because a part of me has always been running ahead of where I chronologically am. In my mind, eighteen was always that magic age when I'll finally have arrived. For the entirety of my adolescent years, I've imagined midnight on May 1st, 2009 to be filled with...well, with something.

Somewhere, my childhood escaped me. But, it's not like I woke up one morning (or stayed awake one morning) and realized that I wasn't a kid anymore. It's a process. How's that for the obvious observation of the month?

Growing up is in the present tense for a reason; it's always happening. 

Speaking of presents, I'm older. For my birthday, I would like my childhood back. 

It's not that I'm not excited about getting older and all the new experiences that entails. I'm really excited about my life. Childhood is just one of those things that doesn't come back. Not even for a long weekend. 

A part of me wishes I could be digging in the sandbox, instead of digging for information in the utterly helpless library at school. I'd rather be able to go to the park and just swing, instead of going to work and having to deal with people angry about the amount of whipped cream I put on their hot fudge sundae. I'd give almost anything to be able to play in the awesome fantasy world my best friend and I created in first grade, instead of playing with reality.

Maybe my exposure to reality is what gave my growing up such a jump-start. When I look at people who are eleven or twelve right  now, I'm always struck by just how childish they really are. The things they do and talk about are anything but similar to what was on my mind at eleven and twelve. 

When I was eleven, I was trying to figure out what the meaning of life is. No joke. It kept me tearfully awake just about every single night. I also got my braces taken off that year. When I turned twelve, it got more intense. The search for life's meaning, that is. I remember being struck my own emptiness almost daily throughout most of seventh grade. I was still immature, but it was the kind of immaturity that almost realized its own existence. My immaturity contributed to my emptiness. It didn't make sense how one part of me could be dealing with such weighty things, and another part could just want to do dumb things like playing in the mud. It was too late to go back to the mud, though. My childhood had already mostly flown by.

And now I'm here. I'm still struck by my own immaturity at times, although I like to think of myself as mature on the whole. I'm still aware of emptiness from time to time, although it's mostly that of those around me. I'm still searching for my life's exact meaning, although I do have a firm grip on its general meaning. I still have my braces off, although I do wear a retainer every night. So, in a way, I guess I still am the same person.

'60s, hippies, etc.

I usually don't do journal style blog posts, where I talk about what's going on in my life. Mostly, that's because I'm fairly convinced that nobody cares all that much. Today, though, I'm really in the mood. 

For my honors history class, I have to write a final paper on any topic relating to western civilizations, as long as it dates from the 1700s to the present day. I picked hippies and the counter cultural/anti-war movements of the 1960s. 

Just for kicks, I used Google Images to search for photos of "hippies." I thought you might enjoy this one:

It goes along perfectly with a book I came across in my research. Apparently, the school's library search engine thought this book would come in handy. 

My Hippie Grandmother is a children's book written by Reeve Lindbergh, whoever that is. The basic focus of the story is on a young girl's relationship with her grandmother, who drives a purple bus and "hasn't cut her hair since nineteen sixty-nine." Together, the pair work in Grandma's organic garden and participate in anti-war protests outside of City Hall.

Oh, and the hippie grandmother's cat is named Woodstock. That just might be the most important detail.

Anyway, this paper. 

I went to the library and got about five books on hippie-related subjects. Actually, I got exactly five books on hippie-related subjects. I realized that I really miss doing research with actual books, instead of just typing things into Google.

Maybe I should become a hippie and reject all forms of modern information-getting. I should live in a cabin on top of a hill and grow my own food in a garden in my backyard. I'll become a vegetarian and I won't drive my hippie bus very often, unless I find time to create my own form of oil for it to run. You know, it's to save the environment and everything. If I have to, I'll get a horse and a buggy to travel from place to place.

Or would that be considered Amish?

un-hippielike quote of the day: "a large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of." [jane austen]

(noun) trib'-yah-LAY-shahn

Here I am, sitting in the school library. I'm people-watching, because I finished all my statistics homework within a reasonable amount of time today. I'm pretty sure that no one cares about how I spend the minutes of my free time, so if anyone actually is reading this, they are no doubt wondering 'why.' 

Why indeed. 

It's a good question. A lot is packed into that one three letter word. No matter what it's asked about, 'why' can easily be considered the Superman of questions (or whatever other comic book character you happen to think the most worthy, I guess). 

It's a heartbreaking question, to ask as well as to hear. Asking 'why' when you know that no one has a real answer, at least not one they're going to give you, is frustrating at best. It's tragically pitiful at worst. Being asked 'why' when you don't even know yourself is probably one of the hardest things, really whatever that 'why' might be relating to. It would be so much easier if life just was, without having to be explained. 

It's like in math class, where all the answers are just supposed to be. No questions asked. 2+2=4. But, in my statistics class, our instructor will constantly ask us 'why.' Why do you use the binomial formula in this instance, but not in the other instance? Why does the probability equal .5? 

But, then, you can ask 'why' about much more difficult things. Why am I so alone so much of the time? Why is he not talking to me anymore? Why is my life falling apart, when all the lives around me are staying perfectly intact?

Why indeed. 

For the most part, I don't have the answers. I don't know why the quartiles in a certain data set are what they are anymore than I know why you had to lose someone so important to you. I think I remember someone saying that it's not always important to have the answers, provided you can ask the right questions. 

Really?

As long as someone has the answers, I guess that's an acceptable statement. But, it doesn't give that qualifier. What's the point of asking questions if you never ever hear an answer? 

And yet, I'm never going to get all the answers to all my questions. Maybe I'll figure some out. Maybe someone will be able to tell me 'why' in a few circumstances. But, every question I have? There's no way all of those will be answered. Although it's kind of frustrating to think about, I'm pretty sure that most of my questions will remain unanswered. 

Such as, WHY is there an obnoxiously large dinosaur statue, painted with the most seizure-inducing colors, being stored in the back of library?

"Stuffed deer heads on walls are bad enough, but it's worse when they are wearing dark glasses and have streamers in their antlers because then you know they were enjoying themselves at a party when they were shot." [ellen degeneres = awesome]

So Much Love (yes, i do name blog posts after what comes up on my ipod's shuffle. sheesh.)

I have this full length mirror in my bedroom. It's slightly classy. Maybe someday I'll take a picture of it. 

I have this habit of looking at myself. If a mirror isn't available, I'll use windows, puddles, shiny cars, or your sunglasses. This full length mirror makes looking at myself so much more convenient. 

I'm probably not the right person to have a full length mirror, or any object I can see a reflection in for that matter. Looking at myself has always caused me so much more grief than it should. I remember times when I would end up sobbing, all because my reflection just happened to catch me off guard. 

Lately, though, looking at myself in my mirror has put different kinds of thoughts in my head. Sure, I still see the things I wish didn't exist. That's just not what looking at myself makes me think about. 

I'm really just nothing special. 

My whole life I've been told I was special. Mr. Rogers had me convinced by the age of three. I was the first grandchild, so that automatically made me a big deal. When I could memorize those AWANA books cover to cover in second and third grade, I got super proud of myself. In sixth grade, when I scored at the college reading level, I knew I was special. In high school, when I would compare the person I was to the people my peers were, I had this idea of being miles ahead of them on the maturity scale. And then the big one. I finished high school a whole year early. Woah; I'm so special. 

Not really. 

For the most part, this past year has instilled a good sense of my normal-ness. Really, I'm not as different as I naively used to think I was. That's not to say I've become a conformist. I still think I'm strongly individualistic. 

I'm really just nothing special.

I like knowing that. It's actually very comforting. There's a lot more pressure involved if you're "special." You have to live up to certain expectations. I'm not complacent, though. I don't want to be mediocre in life. The more special I am, though, the better I supposedly am than everyone else. It's kind of complicated to explain, I guess. 

It's not like I'm normal now, so I can fit in. It's not like I all of a sudden have given up on attaining anything worth attaining. It's more of an adequate sense of myself as compared to the universe. It makes me feel small. The good kind of small. 

I'm really just nothing special.

And I wouldn't change that for anything. 

let no one who loves be unhappy. even love unreturned has its rainbow james barrie

You know that feeling you get in your toes when it's December and you only wear one pair of socks?

Numb

Almost like frost bite

Not hurting, not feeling,

But dying everyday. 

Cold and unmoving

Nothing comes in, nothing gets out.

Lifeless and empty

The vacancy sign lit

Eternal vacancy. 

Not changing, not caring.

Alone yet unbothered.

Ceasing to exist,

Through merely existing. 

No more than survival, 

And barely even that. 

Breathing is humanity's only signal.

Painless, loveless.

Without despair, without joy. 

Almost like frost bite

Numb.

I think numb is something I have the potential to become very easily...again.

 So much about not feeling anything seems appealing. But then, at the same time, so much about it scares me. 

Maybe I'd never get hurt, but I couldn't ever be happy, either.

Numb is the easy choice, I'm convinced. I mean, it sucks to be numb, but it really is a lot simpler to just not feel than to live in a constant state of pain, at least on the surface. After a while, you've gone too far. Being numb causes you to lose a part of you that you honestly will never be able to get back. 

Numb is a dangerous place to be. And so often it seems like the only means of escape, which is a big part of what makes it so dangerous. You might not even be living if you're so completely immersed in numbness. 

Numb is not an option anymore. Forcing myself to feel, even if it's pain, is the only way I can logically see getting through life's ups and, perhaps more essentially, downs. 

First Impressions.

I've basically grown up at church. I've been attending and involved for as long as I can remember. I honestly can't think back to a time when church hasn't been a HUGE part of my life. There's a lot of who I am that stemmed from the things that I've learned and experienced through church. There's a lot of friendships I've made through church activities that I know I'll maintain throughout the rest of life. 

That said, the church is so ridiculous so much of the time. 

And I mean that in the most respectful way possible. 

For the most part, the members of the church are insanely judgemental. It's absolutely revolting how the people found inside of the walls of a church are easily the most judgemental and condescending people you could find, at least 85% of the time. 

How is that even possible?

Based on everything I've learned in church, the church should be a place full of vibrant, genuine and loving people. The church has even taught me that the Bible makes it clear that God is in the only one who is in a position to pass judgement on people. Other people are simply not equipped to pass this judgement. 

I hate how unloving the vast majority of the Christian community is, especially the sect which would identify themselves as "traditional", "fundamental", or "conservative". 

I think that attitude has everything to do with my general sense of distaste for those three aforementioned words. 

So many times people act like the only people who deserve their respect are other Christians who would label themselves as such.

Honestly, that's ridiculous. 

Ugh. It just disgusts me so much. I really don't blame people for being turned off of Christianity and church. If it hadn't been such an integral part of my life from such an early age, I might very easily be turned off of it myself. And maybe to some extent I am.  Perhaps I'm unjustly passing judgement on the Christian community, percieving a mind set that might not even be close to reality. Based on what I hear from people outside of the church, though, it's perfectly accurate. Maybe I really am cynical towards the general population of church-going, conservative, fundamentalist Christians. Maybe this is even my own way of judging others.

And maybe that's harsh. 

All I know is that I've been able to disassociate God from the broken institution that is the church, so that my own faith isn't affected by the attitudes I see around me. I still do consider myself a Christian. I simply do not want to be categorized as the stereotypical and all to common judgemental Christian.

In church, you're always taught to live your life different from the rest of the world. I'm not satisfied just living differently from the general population of people, though. I want to live differently from the general population of Christians, too. 

"We have too many high sounding words, and too few actions that correspond with them." [Abigail Adams]

The Essence of Inhumanity

So.
I hate posts that begin with "so." It sounds like you don't know what you're talking about. It reminds me of some sort of valley girl. "So" is one of those fillers that I actually used to get in trouble for using Freshman year of high school. I have lots of terrible memories surrounding the word "so."
But, I digress (I also love the phrase "I digress"; I could use it non-stop. But, I digress).

Last Thursday, the Amnesty International at my school hosted this screening for a film made by Invisible Children (http://www.invisiblechildren.com/). Basically, the organization raises awareness about the situation of abducted child soldiers of the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) in Uganda, working towards their rescue.

It really got me thinking about being indifferent, apathetic, complacent, or any other synonymous word that could go along with those.
It's so easy for us to see something like that and go "Oh, that really sucks" without taking any further action, or at the very least thinking about it more than that. The most people do when confronted with issues and situations like that is become immediately more thankful for their own way of life.

That's so bogus, to put it mildly.

Caring is one thing, but caring can still become identical to indifference if you simply care on the inside. If you only do that, you might as well not care. I really don't think the general cliche of 'it's the thought that counts' applies to situations like these. Your thoughts don't count if they don't compel you to actually do something. If your thoughts don't make you rethink your indifference, you might as well not be thinking, since it isn't doing anyone any good.

I love George Bernard Shaw, for many reasons, but mostly because I found a quote by him last Friday that completely summed up all of my feelings on this subject:
"The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent towards them: that's the essence of inhumanity."

People so often attribute the label of "worst sin" against other people to the direct and outright hatred towards other people, mainly seen as the deprivation of basic rights or the dehumanization of another individual. That's not it, though.

While those things are wrong, I think it's the person who hears about these things being done to a fellow human being and then proceeds to do nothing that has inflicted the most wrong upon them.